Stalking Dragon
by Elanor2
Summary: Spike and Vicious. Men who know how to kill, and have no problem doing so. See what happens when they go head-to-head, and when a Red Dragon Syndicate assassin stops by for a visit. This is it- The Stalking Dragon.
1. A Blade's Ballet

****

A Blade's Ballet  
  
Ganymede  
October 22, 2068  
1:30 A.M.   
Outside _Pak Ratz_ All night Bar  
  
It was a dark night on Ganymede. The stars seemed to have eluded their post for the evening, and no light was supplied as usual, except, of course, for the street lights. Very few roamed the streets, and the ones that did, seemed to be concealing something with their oversized trench coats and bowler hats. It seemed as if something was wrong, fear roamed the streets freely, and swam in and out of the constant shadowy alleys and back-ways. It was a night for wrongdoing, a night for evil.  
  
Two men stumbled drunkenly from the _Pak Ratz_ nightclub. One was extremely fat, and had a grizzled, black beard that consumed his face, and deep, swollen eyes from countless nights of lost sleep. He had a red T-shirt on, and a pair of long blue jeans. He held a bottle of whiskey, and in between laughter and random banter between himself and his friend, he would take a quick swig of it. The other man seemed rather drunk, yet more sober than the other. He had a large black trench coat on, but it was obvious that he was a lean man, with a pale face that seemed to be deprived of something. They both stumbled away from the loud music inside the club, and down the back-alley to go find their car.  
  
"Umm, Mikey, uhh...guess wha'?" asked the fat man.  
  
"What the hell do ya want Stan," asked Mike?  
  
"Why do we hafta go man, I was gettin' it on, man, with that chick in 'dere!" said Stan.  
  
"What the hell are you talking about? You was sittin' at the bar the whole time ya doofus!" said Mike.  
  
"Wha...wha cha' talkin' 'bout man?" asked Stan, as he drank a bit more whiskey.  
  
"Dude, it ain't matter! What does matter, though, is that we gotta get back ta head quartas! We ain't supposed ta be here! Mr. Guinera will kick our asses, not to mention give us each a bowl a lead salad if he knew we was here!" screamed Mike.  
  
"You need to lighten' up man! Take this whisk-"   
  
A clicking sound cuts off Stan.  
  
"Wha was that?" asked Stan.  
  
"I d-"   
  
Mike is cut off by yet another clicking sound.  
  
"Oh no," he says, "its the Red Dragon-"  
  
Before Mike could finish his sentence, a bullet rips through Stan's chest. The whisky falls from his hand, and he slams lifelessly against the brick wall, painting it with blood, and then he was dead.  
  
"Oh fuck!" screamed Mike.   
  
He pulls out his Berretta and begins shooting in random directions. Before he could do any damage to anything but brick, another shot is fired, and it pierces Mike's hand, whilst his gun fly's out of his hand and farther back into the alley.  
  
"Ahhhh!" screams Mike in pain.  
  
He cradles his hand in his arm and looks frantically around in the darkness for the sniper. He runs down the alley, towards the darkened parking lot. A car is heard starting up, and a green Z3 convertible drives up in front of Mike.   
  
"Get da fuck in!" yells the driver.  
  
Another shot is fired. It breaks the front left window, and enters the driver's head. He slumps over the wheel, dead. Mike opens the door, takes the man's Desert Eagle, and pulls the driver out of the car, and desperately tries to drive with one hand. He backs up into the brick wall, crushing the back of the car.   
  
Yet another shot is fired, and this time it hits Mike in his waist. He screams in pain, and slams on the pedal, speeding away. He looks back in his rear-view mirror, and notices a tall man, holding a sniper rifle, watching him flee. On the man's shoulder sits a large crane, it also watches him, as if it realizes what is going on. Mike is perplexed by this, but decides not to care, and he drives as fast as possible through the darkened streets towards the mafia don's hide-away.  
  
**2:05 A.M.**   
  
Mike races down the darkened, evil streets of the night, swerving in and out every which way just to lose the tail of the assassin. He knows that the Red Dragon syndicate is ruthless. They do what they say, and if the man they send to do the job doesn't accomplish his or her job, they are killed themselves. The assassin that killed Stan will be killed if Mike survives, which means Mike can't stop driving, or he'll die. The cell phone in Mike's trench-coat pocket rang. He picked up the phone and stared deeply at it, as if staring evil in the eye. He pushed the send button, and a deepened, intimidating voice spoke on the other side of the phone line.  
  
"Hello, Mike," said the voice, as if trying to scare Mike into a trap, a trap that will put the assassin back on track, and knock Mike completely off it.  
  
"Who-Who is this?" Mike stuttered.  
  
"Just call me Vicious," said the voice.  
  
"What the hell do you want from me?" asked Mike.  
  
"You know what I want. There's no point in running. I'm the best of the best," said Vicious.  
  
Mike snickered to himself.  
  
"Best of the best, huh? Well you didn't get me, and I'm just a bodyguard!" laughed Mike.  
  
"Au contraire," said Vicious, "I haven't got you, yet."  
  
It seemed as if the darkness was home to Vicious, darkness in darkness, evil in evil. Mike wasn't innocent either, but Vicious seemed to be at home in the darkness, and it was certain he had some pretty big sins that would be hard to forgive. It was predator and prey now. Mike had no chance.  
  
It seemed like time stopped. In a second another shot was fired, going through the front windshield, narrowly missing Mike, but the glass shattered on him. He searched for Vicious and saw him standing on another building ahead, watching him pass, with the same staring crane on his shoulder, and the sniper rifle in his hand. Mike looked away towards the road, then to his rear-view mirror. Vicious was gone.  
  
His heart skipped a beat, not realizing where Vicious was, until a dark blue Viper screamed out from the back-alleys behind the building he was just atop of. Vicious meant business, and he was not intending to fail his assignment. He drove full speed ahead, regardless of any oncoming traffic. Mike's Z3 was no match for Vicious's Viper. Vicious was quickly catching up.  
  
Mike drove through a red light, and a police car put on its sirens, ready to pursue him, but Vicious was ever to foolhardy, and swerved to not hit head on into the car. Vicious was smashed against his window; cutting his cheek and sending blood down his face. The police car flipped over twice, and the policeman inside was sent flying through the windshield, and slammed onto the pavement. His body was sprawled out in a twisted and morbid fashion, his fingers twitched, his legs attempted to move, but it was too late. He died.  
  
Vicious, not caring about anyone or anything but his job, backed up and sped forward down the road after Mike.   
  
Mike quickly came upon _Joe's Sub-O-Rama_, a secret front for the Guinera crime family, Mike's bosses. He slammed on the breaks, covering the parking lot with tire marks, and jumped out of the car and stumbled into the sandwich shop, with his Desert Eagle in hand. The man at the counter looked in horror at the blood seeping from Mike, and just stared as Mike went into the back.   
  
  
"You must be new," grunted Mike. "You'll be seein' this shit pretty damn often, so get used to it"  
  
"Uhh...uhh...yes'ir," stuttered the man.  
  
"Shuddup..."  
  
The back door led to a half an acre large complex of rooms and hallways, the home of the crime syndicate.   
  
Mike knew his way around like that back of his hand, but considering his massive blood loss, and the assassin following him, he didn't know where to go. He stumbled down the stairs and followed the hallway, leaving a trail of blood behind him. The first door he opened had five bodyguards noshing on donuts inside. When Mike busted open the door, every single one aimed their guns at him.  
  
"It's O.K. guys, its me," said Mike, cuffing his hand over his waist, while the other hand clenched the Desert Eagle.  
"There's this crazy asshole after me! Ya gotta help me!"  
  
A man near the back of the room slammed his hand against the wall, and a small door popped open, revealing it to hold four shotguns. He handed the shotguns to the others, while the remaining man helped Mike to a back room.  
  
**3:15 A.M.**  
  
One of the bodyguards stared through the peephole in the entrance to the hideout, to watch for anyone coming. The door to the shop opened, and in walked a man with something strapped to his back, and blood dripping down his face. He looked stern and cold, waiting for something, or someone.   
  
The bodyguard observed the man at the counter going over to the man who entered, and telling him that the store was closed. The man put his hand on the clerk's shoulder, smiled, then squeezed the clerk's shoulder, incapacitating him. The man pulled a large katana out of the now apparent sheathe on his back, and smiled as light in the store glinted from its flawless blade. He came to the door, and stopped, blocking the peephole's view.  
  
A second bodyguard came to the base of the stairs.  
  
"Jake, don't be a fool! If you stare through the hole, you can't ready yo'self for anyone that's wants some ass kickin'!" said the bodyguard.  
  
"Fuck you man, my job's to look out, and I'm look-"   
  
Jake is cut off, as a katana slices through the door, and his head. The katana is pulled out of the door, and Jake falls back slowly and slides down the stairs, and to the other bodyguard's feet.  
  
"No! You son of a fucking bitch!" yelled the bodyguard, as he pumped an entire MP5 clip into the door, and screaming out in vain to avenge his friend.  
  
He reloaded his gun and rammed through the door, surveying the area. The lights had been turned off, the darkness had overcome the shop, and now the bodyguard, as the katana sliced into his gut. A man with white hair stared before him, grinning.  
  
"Who the hell are you?" asked the bodyguard.  
  
"Vicious. Remember my name in hell," he said, and pulled the sword out of the bodyguard's gut, killing him.   
  
Evil was coming, enveloping, and consuming everything. No one would survive.  
  
Vicious darted down the stairs and into the hallway, silent as a mouse, deadly as a cobra. He slowly put his hand on the doorknob, and turned it. The door was barely open, and Vicious peeked inside. One man was inside, with his shotgun. He was at the table, sweating like a hog, and as fat as one too. Vicious grinned his evil smile, and slowly pushed the door open.  
  
The fat man stood up and aimed his shotgun at Vicious, who ducked out of the way, as bullets ripped through the wall and door. He ran forth, into the hallway, and turned right. Before he could aim, Vicious cut the barrel from the shotgun, and powder spilled on the floor. The guard stood, gasping, as he dropped his shotgun, and fell to his knees.   
  
  
"Please, I was only defending what I had to! Please don't kill me!" he pleaded.  
  
"No time for talk, I must be on my way!" said Vicious, and he decapitated the guard, and moved on.  
  
Meanwhile, Mike sat, in bandages, with an MP5 in his uninjured hand. He aimed it at the door, waiting for Vicious. Then he dropped his gun. There was no point in trying. Vicious was going to kill him. He got up, exited the room, and went down the hallway, to the secret sewer escape.   
  
Vicious, meanwhile, had killed two more guards, and was moving on down the hallway. He came to the last room, and saw a puddle of blood under a chair, and some bandages, a Desert Eagle, and an MP5 clip on the table. A few more drops led from the room, and to the secret exit.   
  
Vicious came into the sewer and spotted someone down quite a ways, turning the corner, with an MP5 in tow. Vicious pursued the man.  
  
The sewer tunnels were dark and gloomy, yet another victim of the darkness. Mold and fungi grew, making the place smell like a pigsty. There were many ways to go, but only way one to leave. Up, up from the manholes.  
  
Before Vicious turned the corner, he heard the sound of heavy metal being pushed. Mike had found a manhole cover.  
  
Vicious turned the corner, as he saw Mike's feet dangle out of sight and onto the street. Vicious ran forward to the ladder leading upwards, sheathed his sword, and began to climb. When he got to the street level, Mike had just escaped via taxi. He was going to escape, unless Vicious could get a car.  
  
Vicious put his hand out and stopped a gray Sedan driving forward. He took out his sword, quickly ran to the window, and put the sword to the driver's neck.  
  
"Get out!" he commanded.  
  
"Y-Y-Yes sir," she said, and got out of the van.  
  
He took the Sedan and began to drive to where the taxi holding Mike left. Suddenly, his cell phone rang.  
  
"Is it done?" said a gruff, manly voice.  
  
"Yes, it's done," assured Vicious.  
  
"Then return to the headquarters, we have more plans in store," said the man.  
  
"I can't right now. I..," he pauses."I have other business to attend to."   
  
"Do you honestly think I give a shit? Get to H.Q. now!" screamed the man.  
  
"Yes....Sir," said Vicious, reluctantly.  
  
**3:53 A.M.**  
  
Vicious drove down the streets, cursing the _Red Dragon Syndicate_ leader constantly. He was so close. Had he just driven straight through the traffic, and made a right, he could have stopped Mike, and killed him. Simple as that. No hustle and bustle, just a quick slice from his blade, and ta-da- job done. But no, it was all ruined.  
  
Vicious returned to the headquarters, a small, abandoned warehouse. It was the main headquarters, but not even half of the syndicate was ever there. Nobody ever suspected it to be on Ganymede, a simple moon, full of simple folk. But Vicious always thought, in the back of his head, that the most feared syndicate known to human kind, that operated around the universe, that killed countless people but was never caught, that had flawless executions, was reduced to working in an abandoned warehouse used to hold buns and hamburger patties that were used by some old, long gone, fast-food restaurant called McDonald's.  
  
Vicious, begrudging, entered the warehouse, and got out of the car. A man in a suit, with a pointed goatee, and large, circular glasses, sat at a small wooden chair, under the warehouse's only source of light, a hanging light bulb that swung from side to side, revealing boxes filled with contraband, guns and ammo, and other things. Vicious walked to the table, and the man motioned Vicious to sit down on in the chair opposite his.  
  
"So, Vicious, they are gone, are they not?" he asked.  
  
"Yes Mr. Kaustrik," answered Vicious.  
  
"Good, because we want to ask you, why did you go to their base, and kill nine of their men?"  
  
Vicious's eyes widened, but he looked toward the ground to hide his astonishment. They knew, but how? He had killed everyone in sight.  
  
"Excuse me? I did nothing of the sort, Sir," said Vicious, acting dumbfounded at the fact that they blamed him for a small mass murder.  
  
"You didn't? That's strange, because we found a man, with a hole in his stomach who says, or shall I say said, that a man, fitting your profile, stabbed him through the stomach, and his friend through the head, at the don's hideout."  
  
"With all due respect, I only killed two men, the bodyguards who were invited to the party at that bar. I drove there, waited, killed them, and was on my way back here."  
  
"Why did it take you so long? And why do you have a van? You took the Viper, the same Viper that was at the don's hideout," said Mr. Kaustrik.  
  
"I stopped for a burger; I get hungry after a kill. And I took this van from some apartment complex; I never took the Viper," answered Vicious.  
  
"Well the Viper is gone. Who took it?" he asked.  
  
Vicious searched quickly in his mind. He was still thinking about Mike, and was distracted. He said the first thing he could think of.  
  
"It was Spike. He took the Viper. I saw him; he left around one twenty."  
  
"Spike eh? Are you sure?" asked Mr. Kaustrik.  
  
"Yes," said Vicious. In his mind, he was cursing himself for saying anything.  
  
"Well Spike just got us in deep, deep shit. Lucky for us, he wasn't able to go trigger-happy on the entire family. The guys that were there were just there to keep a look-out on the don's personal piggy bank. Unluckily for us, the ones that aren't dead are coming for us. We'll probably be able to take them, but its gonna be one messy motherfucker."  
  
"I see," said Vicious. He knew what Mr. Kaustrik would say next.  
  
"Sometimes, your greatest friends, are your fiercest foes. It takes a good eye to find the flaws in a man, and I apparently lack it. No matter, a bullet will solve my problem. Tony!" said Mr. Kaustrik.  
  
"Yes Sir?" asked a man in the corner, who was apparently Tony.  
  
"Dispatch Agent Quinn. Tell him his target is Spike Spiegel, our own."  
  
"Yes Sir," answered Tony.  
  
Tony went to the desk that Mr. Kaustrik was sitting at, picked up the phone on the desk, and dialed a number.  
  
"Yes. Spike Spiegel. Yep. Good...hey! He cut me off, the bastard," said Tony.  
  
Mr. Kraustrik pulled a Glock from his shirt, and without moving his head or eyes from Vicious, put the gun to Tony's neck.   
  
"Say that again, and your brains will be our new wallpaper," said Mr. Kaustrik.

"Y-Yes'ir!" squeaked Tony, slowly backing away from the gun.

Mr. Kaustrik stands up. He motions for Vicious to stand up.

"Guys, lets get a move on. I don't want this place to be flooded with blood by the time this war is over."

The men gather into three caravans, and speed off into the night.  
  
**Good Luck, Space Cowboy...**


	2. Showdown on Venus

****

Showdown On Venus

Venus

October 23, 2068

9:13 P.M.

Inside_ Freelance Jazz _Nightclub 

The night crept closer into the world, as a small nightclub known only as _Freelance Jazz_ took it's chance to light up the night with their weekly "Sax Solo Saturday" where men and women from all around would come and play their saxophones. That was why it was called "Freelance", every song was an improvisation, no notes were written, nothing memorized, just on the spot sax freak-out. The saxophone always has sadness about it, even though its tunes can be very high pitched. It naturally speaks for people, speaks for their grief and sorrow, for things long past, or recent happenings, whatever the reason, it was an instrument of the mind, heart, and especially the soul.

A lonely looking man sat at the bar. He himself played the saxophone; the reason he came there in the first place. Under his long, brown trench coat was a blue suit. His hair was green and outgrown, almost resembling an afro. He was tall and slender; he was a man of strength and complexity, yet it was all held in tight by his outer simplicities. He was a man of one-word sentences, soft-spoken, but oh-so fun loving. He went by the name of Spike Spiegel.

Spike sat at the bar, in the only empty bar stool; for all the others were taken. The place was packed, though no one spoke. Everyone just sat back, sipped on their drinks, and listened to the sadness floating about, projected from the sax players. The man on the stool next to Spike's turned to him.

"Hey, you's gonna play? You look like someone full a sadness. Let it out brother. Tell the world. Our ears are listening; our hearts are wide open," he said in a deep, almost Caribbean tone.

Spike just smiled and shrugged his shoulders. The man could tell Spike had the skill, but not the instrument. 

"You can always borrow my sax. Feelings flow through everything, not just personal possessions. Go ahead, give it a go."

The man smiled. His smile was deep and humble; he had obviously played his feelings for longer than many; his life was past the petty principals of sins. He neither told the truth, nor lied. He was himself, the only thing that mattered.

Spike subsided, shook the man's hand in thanks, and went onto the stage as the preceding performer left. 

A simple, wooden stool sat in the middle of the stage. A spotlight hooked to a cheap crane-like metal piece on the ceiling pointed into Spike's face. He couldn't really see the crowd, but it didn't matter, he wasn't nervous. He stared down at the floor, and at the saxophone that the man lent to him. He pursed his lips on the mouthpiece, and let flow his heart and soul.

It seemed like an eternity; the two minutes he spent playing that saxophone. They were easily the best two minutes of his life. His eyes were tightly closed; his mind was shut off. His body had turned all of its resources, to playing that sax. He thought of his troubled past, and how the only way out was to join the _Red Dragon Syndicate_ with his friend, Vicious. Their thoughts were childish and immature. They had no idea how ruthless the syndicate really was. He scolds himself everyday for the decision to join the syndicate. He had no one else but Vicious as a friend, yet Vicious seemed to be drifting away from his side. Vicious was almost blood thirsty, forgetting about the money he needed in the first place, and thinking more about the job and the lives he would soon take. Vicious was, or possibly already has turned into a sad and morbid creature of a man, a man with no soul. Living only by night, and having his crane as his real companion, he used his trusty katana as a silent weapon. It was sad, all so, so sad. Spike let it flow; flow like the truest water. Everyone was silent; astonished that such a master of the instrument had entered their presence. Silent tears flowed; the music was beautiful beyond belief.

And then the silence was ruptured. Ben Hutchinson, a fellow syndicate member, had arrived. He ran through the open front door, and screamed to Spike.

"Get down!"

A panic broke out as from out of nowhere, bullets flew at the stage. People screamed and cried. Everyone dropped to their knees and attempted to dodge the bullets.

Spike flinched as he had barely moved a millimeter, and a bullet grazed his ear lobe. Ben ran onto the stage, and pushed Spike to the floor as a small barrage of bullets hit the wall behind the stage. 

"Run, god dammit Spike, run!" yelled Ben.

Spike jumped off the stage as another bullet ripped through his blue suit's collar. Ben was only a few feet behind Spike, already holding his gun. Spike found a backroom and hid in there. Ben came in and shut the door. 

"The window, go now!" Ben yelled again.

Doing as told, Spike jumped through the window; glass cutting him as it fell upon him. Ben jumped out and fired some bullets through the window as Spike quickly jumped to his feet, and grabbed Ben so as to follow him. Spike came to an old blue spacecraft, it was worn from many space battles, but it still ran; which was the point at the moment.

Both Spike and Ben jumped into the ship, and lifted off the ground. The would-be assassin jumped through the window, and shot every bullet he had at the exterior of the ship, only adding to its ware and tare. Spike piloted the ship away, catching a last glimpse at the man below; still holding his dual pistols high and aimed at the ship as they flew away.

****

9:32 P.M.

The ship soared through the sky. The ship was a big, blue hunk of metal with some hovering mechanics lazily strewn around as needed. It was obviously improperly assembled, it was just another piece of crap that the syndicate gave its newest recruits; just so they can move around, and stalk their targets. Spike had been in the syndicate for quite some time, and he was still hovering around in this piece of shit. No matter, Spike had accumulated cash over time, and he was ready to buy just the right ship. But that's beside the point, the point now was to run, or rather fly, his ass off. This was even more apparent when a green ship hovered out from nowhere and under Spike's ship.

It was the assassin. He now made it clear that he was not giving up. His ship was long and narrow, with two wings jutting from the left and right of the ship, and another wing on the top of the back of the ship. There was a small cockpit in the middle, and one could barely make out the man inside. The ship was built for speed, and the extra mini-gun hooked to the tip of the ship would certainly make up for the lack of firepower. 

The ships came together, the window of the assassin's cockpit almost scraped the bottom of Spike's hull, but before the assassin could strike, Spike came to a small apartment complex, and the assassin had to move out of the way of oncoming houses. He flew to the left, avoided an outdoor patio, and ripped the tip off of his right wing. 

Spike flew upwards, soaring high above the outskirts of Venus, and into the darkened sky. The assassin followed, in hot pursuit. Suddenly, over Spike's telecom, a picture appeared. A man sits with a face, untouched by emotion, on the monitor. His hair was in dreadlocks, tied in a ponytail. He had a noticeable tan about him, though a natural one. He had square glasses on that sat at the tip of his nose, simply as a style statement. He stared blankly into the screen.

"Spike Spiegel?" asked the assassin.

"Yeah?" Spike answered casually.

"I've come for you."

"Congratulations, now get the hell away from me."

"Don't waste my time Spike, you know who I am, and you know why I've come!"

"I know who you are, Quinn, but I don't know why the hell you've come!"

"Damn Spike. Stop asking questions. You know what you did, and anyone with half a brain would know the consequences of it. So lets just get this over with."

"Fuck you, Quinn. I'm outta here."

Agent Quinn sighed. 

"Too bad Spike, you could have died courageously, but now I have to slaughter you like a cow."

Quinn began firing his mini-gun at the ship. Spike was getting pummeled, there was no way out.

Suddenly, Ben had an idea, and without explaining anything, he grabbed the steering handles, and began turning the ship.

"Get ready to jump," he warned.

He pushed the engine to its maximum, the ship went as fast as possible, and everything was just flying like a bat out of hell- straight towards Quinn. He pulled out an Israeli issue Jericho pistol. 

"Keep it, you'll need it."

Those were his final words, as he pulled out his own pistol, and blasted the cockpit windshield into pieces. He grabbed Spike just as Spike had shoved the Jericho into his pants, and they jumped. From forty stores high, they jumped. 

It seemed that the explosion that occurred after would have obliterated Quinn. That is what they were hoping considering they had just landed on the ceiling of an apartment and crashed straight through it, making it hard for them to fight back anytime soon. Spike bruised his wrists, and Ben bruised three ribs, a lucky consequence considering they fell seven stories onto the building. 

Wherever they had landed, the owner was gone. The apartment was fairly acceptable, with many things broken. It was hard to tell if they had broken anything, or if it was already like this. The floors were all made of tile, but some green mold had grown in all the crevices in between, and there was only one other room which was a small room with a stove, sink, and bath tub. It was a strange place indeed, but Spike and Ben didn't give a second thought to their surroundings, they just needed help.

"You know there gonna kill you too," said Spike.

"Yeah, I know," said Ben in a solemn tone.

"So, why are you here?"

"I heard they were sending Quinn. He's good ya know? It's sorta a compliment for a large syndicate to send one of their top assassins after you. Shows your true skill."

Ben smiled a frail smile, as his ribs were aching. He continued.

"Heard that someone was sent to kill a few mafia men, just a little warning. It was done, but someone went fricken' crazy and slaughtered like nine guys are the base. For some reason, they blamed it on you, and I know that you it was not. We may not be best of friends, but we've been through our share of crazy shit together, and I don't want to see you blown away for something you didn't even do. Anyways, they said this someone was not using a gun, but a sword, because they were definitely not shot. I don't know why they think its you, because you don't even have-"

"Vicious," interrupted Spike

"What?" questioned Ben.

"Its Vicious, he's the one. Why wouldn't they pin it on him, its so obvious. The bastard. So what are we gonna do? Keep running until he finds us and blow his head off?"

"Well in the five seconds I've had to get here and save you, I have a small plan worked out.

"And that is...?"

"There is a man, named Mr. Trieton. He owns a small protection agency. He could help us kill Quinn."

"Why would he help us?"

"He's a friend, plus he owes me five thousand woolongs."

"Good, let's go."

****

9:44 P.M.

Ben and Spike surfed in and out of the shadows, finding any cover they could get as they made their way to an old strip bar by the name of _Open 24_. It was a front for Dan Trieton's business. He employed around twenty men who could protect someone around the clock, for the right fee, of course. Ben and Spike didn't have more than twenty woolongs in their pockets, but Trieton's debt to Ben would certainly help.

The two were hiding in the shadows made by a mortar wall piece that jutted out of a wall for some reason. They both tightly gripped their guns, ready to unleash hell as needed. Spike had no idea where Mr. Trieton's club was, but Ben did, so Spike hooked his eyes to Ben, and was ready to follow.

They had been sitting under the mortar wall for ten minutes; Spike had no idea why. Ben kept peering around the corner, as if something was coming. Spike noticed that a piece of the handle of Ben's gun was cutting him because of his tight grip, yet Ben did nothing, and kept an eye out for passer-bys.

Spike sat for a moment, remembering the past, and how he met Quinn, or Agent Quinn, as he was formally known.

His weapon of choice had always been a six-shooter. Some say his first victim had a revolver, and that inspired him to make the choice. But, for whatever personal reasons, Agent Quinn carried two Magnums. They were big and shiny, and packed plenty of punch.

Spike remembered one time when he, Quinn, and another man by the name of Terry were casually walking down the street, talking about the latest baseball game, or rather Quinn and Terry were, and Spike was listening. Out of nowhere, a shotgun totting mob man ran into the street, and fired at Terry. It hit him in the chest, most likely killing him at the very moment. Quinn had pulled out one of his Magnums and raddled off bullets at the man. Every single bullet hit the man, in an inclining fashion. One bullet in the foot, then the knee, the crotch, the lower stomach, the chest, and finally one right between his eyes. Quinn simply spun his gun in his hand, and put it into his chest-holster, and closed his jacket. Spike had been amazed, but he had no time to stare, because he had to take Terry's body before any cops came. That was what started the small war between the Guinera crime family and the _Red Dragon Syndicate_. 

Spike was brought back to reality as Ben tapped him on the shoulder.

"Come on!" he whispered.

Spike got up, and followed Ben, who went to the front of a nearby-parked car, and ducked behind it. 

"We might have a tail," he said, his eyes still on the street behind them. 

"Then let's go, we can just make a run for it," said Spike.

"You gotta be kidding," retorted Ben. "Let's do it." 

Ben put his gun in his holster, and Spike shoved his gun in the back of his pants, and they both sprinted off down the road.

Ben turned to the right, and Spike followed. People on the streets stared as the two ran by, but they made it. They stood at the door to _Open 24_ and checked the area. They entered.

To their surprise, the place seemed to be closed. No lights had been turned no, no perverted men stared hard at strippers dancing on the poles on the stage in the middle of the room, nothing.

"This isn't good," sighed Ben.

"No kidding," said Spike. 

Suddenly, Spike noticed an open door down a hallway at the end of the building.

"Lets check in there."

He walked across the room, surveying his surroundings. Near the hallway with the open door, Spike saw a small wet bar, complete with red leather stools, and shelves of booze. Another large bar surrounded the stage. A bunch of wooden chairs and stools were next to the large bar. Old beer bottles and loose change were on the bar; it seemed to be long out of use.

He made his way down the darkened hallway, to the door. He slowly pushed open the door, standing out of view of anyone inside. It creaked as it opened, no other sounds came from in the room, and it seemed to be empty.

Spike entered the room and was astonished to see a man at a desk.

"I'm a friend of Ben's," he said.

"I see," said a man at a desk. He sighed. "Sit down."

Spike looked around, and saw there were no seats. He also noticed that the room was extremely bare. The room also seemed to be darker than the club is. The desk that the man sat at was an old, cheap desk. It seemed to be something a head of a magazine would use; it had plenty of drawers to store plenty of notes and information. The desktop had many imperfections that were visible because of nothing covering it. The only objects on the desk were a pencil, a crumbled paper with a few scribbled notes on it, a half full bottle of vodka, and a small, fully loaded, revolver that sat in the very middle of the desk, right in front of the man.

The man himself was just as bare as the room. He had on a pair of khaki shorts, and a button-up, white shirt. He was bald, though he had a small goatee. His face seemed to have been drowned in sadness, and the bottle of vodka. He was certainly in a very bad position, for an unknown reason. 

The room had just a hardwood floored, and brick walls. There was no light source. A small poster of _Betty Boop _singing on stage was on the wall farthest from Spike.

The man at the table mumbled some words.

"They're gone...all gone," he said, and downed some more vodka.

"Mr. Trieton, I presume?" asked Spike.

Mr. Trieton seemed surprise when Spike spoke, and reached for his revolver. Spike quickly aimed his Jericho at him before he could do anything.

"I'm not here to hurt you; I just need your protection," said Spike.

Mr. Trieton lowered his gun and placed it on the table. Ben walked into the room, and Mr. Trieton didn't seem to care.

"My protection? That's what you want kid?" he asked.

"Yeah, that's all."

"Too late."

"Late? Late for what?"

"Wait, are you Spike Spiegel?" he asked.

"Yes," Spike answered.

Mr. Trieton's face turned into a deeper frown. He drowned his sorrows with the rest of the vodka, and tossed the bottle at the wall, breaking the bottle.

"So you're the motherfucker that got my crew killed, huh?" said Mr. Trieton, in a small, demeaning voice.

Spike and Ben said nothing, they didn't even look at each other, but they were both surprised.

"What?" asked Spike.

"They knew you would come to me. So they killed my crew before you could use 'em. The clients, the reason, even the money. All a fucking fraud. Thanks a bunch, asshole," Mr. Trieton said. 

Ben walked to Mr. Trieton's desk, and leaned forward to his face.

"They're all dead? Every single one?"

Mr. Trieton began to sob.

"Yep, every single one. I had to paint myself with Eddie's fucking blood and lye down for an hour just so I could escape! It was just one man, one asshole of a man. We thought this guy who'd hired us just needed us for a meeting with some other gangsters. Turned out, the moment we all entered the place, he pulled a fast one on us, and slaughtered them all with a hidden machine gun."

He put his face in his hands, and shook his head.

"It's all your fault! They're all fuckin' dead because of you!" he shouted. He reached for his revolver, but Ben grabbed it away.

"It's gonna be alright. No ya got reason to quit the bis-"

"Quit? I love this job! I get paid better than my strippers!"

"Come on Ben; let's get outta here," said Spike.

"Ya know kid, you aren't gonna make it outta this alive?" said Mr. Trieton.

"I know." Spike sighed. "I know."

Spike turned to leave. 

"And by the way, I'm not a kid."

****

10:07 P.M.

Spike and Ben left Mr. Trieton's office, but they stopped when they heard the front door open.

"He's here," they both said in unison.

They both turned around, and ran into a room that led to some stairs leading upward into some sort of storage room. They passed Mr. Trieton's office, whom had also heard the door opening. He sighed and reached into his drawer. He pulled out an Uzi and ran into the hallway.

"Run, guys, I'll hold him off!" he said.

They rammed open the door, and began to run up the stairs as they heard Mr. Trieton unloading his clip at Agent Quinn. Mr. Trieton was screaming at the top of his lungs.

"Eat lead you bastard! Ahhh!"

He ran out of sight, and then a few single bullets tore through the short silence. A sound of someone falling emitted from outside the hallway. Mr. Trieton was dead, and Quinn was right behind them. 

Spike was ahead of Ben, and he had already reached the door. He kicked it open and pulled out his Jericho. He looked down as Ben was coming up the stairs.

"Take this!" Ben yelled.

He pulled Mr. Trieton's revolver out of his pocket and threw it at Spike. Spike caught it, and waited for Ben to run up. But he was too late.

Quinn came around the corner, and in a split second, a bullet ripped through Ben's left leg. He stumbled and fell on the stairs. His body fell slowly to the ground.

There was nothing Spike could do. He slightly closed the door, peering through the crack between the door and wall. 

Ben lay at Agent Quinn's feet. Ben was holding his leg; an extremely pained look plagued his face. Quinn just stared down at him. His face had no expression. He aimed his Magnum at Ben and fired into his chest. Ben flinched and grabbed his chest. Quinn shot him again, and Ben began to stop moving. His shirt was now stained with blood, not to mention the blood flowing from his wounds and making a puddle under him. Quinn shot him again. Ben stopped moving, and his hands fell to his sides. It eyes were open in horror, but he was certainly dead. Quinn shot him a last time, and stepped over his body. 

Spike moved away from the door and sat poised and ready to fire. The final shot from Quinn's gun pierced the brown, wooden door, spewing wood splinters everywhere. Spike didn't even flinch.

He waited, not moving, only aiming his gun at the door. His finger was getting itchy; he had a full clip, and nowhere else to go. Quinn began to speak.

"So, it's just you and me Spike. Mono et mono. How long 'sit gonna take you to stop bein' yellow, and face me like a man?" he asked.

Spike didn't answer.

"I see. Well I was planning for this, to be truthful; I actually wanted this to happen. How's about we settle this like our ancestors. Not in a fight to the finish, not in a gory, heart-pounding action sequence. Naw, that's for fools. And fools we ain't. So how's about we have an old-fashioned showdown?"

"What the fuck?" Spike said out of nowhere.

"So you're alive." Quinn smiles. "So?"

Spike sighs. "OK, whatever."

Quinn laughs.

"Outside, the street, now," he said, and left to go outside. 

Spike knew he couldn't run forever. He walked down the stairs, but stopped when he heard gun shots and screaming. He shrugged it off, having heard many screams, and even more gun shots, and came outside, to see Quinn standing on the opposite side the street. People around were hiding; the gunshot was just to scare them out of the way.

"Here," said Quinn, "take my Magnum."

"Nah, I got my own six-shooter," said Spike.

Quinn shrugged his shoulders, and emptied his gun. He bent over and picked up one bullet.

Spike took out his revolver, and looked at it for a second. It was Mr. Trieton's. If he killed Quinn, then this would end up being like some weird revenge kind of thing, like from the movies. He unloaded his gun, except for one bullet. He cocked the gun, and placed it into his chest-holster.

Quinn put the bullet to his mouth. 

"One last shot," he said, and spat on the bullet. He then loaded his gun, and placed it in the holster on his waist.

"On three," Quinn said.

"On three," agreed Spike.

Time seemed to freeze, or at least slow down, as Spike heard Quinn say each number.

"One."

Spike put his hand over his chest, and stretched his fingers, ready to pull out his gun.

"Two."

Spike remembered Ben, and how Quinn slaughtered him. And how Mr. Trieton had been shot in the head, as Spike saw when he walked past him. This was Spike's last chance for revenge, and his only chance to survive.

"Three! Draw!"

Time returned to its normal state, as Spike went for his gun and shot at Quinn. Quinn had already ducked down; the bullet easily missed him. Spike just stared. He wasn't astonished, or at all surprised. He just figured it was his destiny. He dropped his gun, and just stood there.

Agent Quinn pulled out his Magnum and aimed it at Spike's head.

"Goodbye, ol' fri-"

A shot fired through the night air. Everything was silent again. Quinn seemed fine, that is, until he fell to his knees, and then headfirst into the asphalt ground. He had been shot in the back, but by whom?

A lone man crept from the darkened alley across the street.. He wore a black trench coat that flowed to his ancles. He held an S&W Sigma; it was now by his side, gripped tightly in his sweaty palm. His hair fell to just above his shoulders, his white hair. A brown and black crane stood firmly on his shoulder, staring at Spike, as if a second pair of eyes to the man.. He sat staring forward, at Spike. 

The man, was Vicious.

****

One Last Bullet, Space Cowboy...


	3. Melody of Sorrow

****

Melody of Sorrow

Venus

October 3, 2068

10:10 P.M.

In the street, next to _Open 24_

The night was young. The lonely fog had of yet to creep from the crevices of Venus, to take up its guard on the lonely and darkened streets of the night. For now, the dark stood alone. It was there to take your mind, make your sorrow consume you, and force the cold death unto your mind. Though tonight was a special night. The darkness lay in wait, and watches the evil down below. 

It was watching two former friends. One, a self-centered yet caring man. He did as was told, asked little questions, and came back, like some dog playing fetch. 

The other, a shrewd, morbid creature. He cared for no one, not a thing. He would kill, even if not ordered to do so. He believed in no god or savior, he believed no one cared for him, not even his birth mother. He was all-alone in this world, ever since he betrayed his friend.

The darkness laughed hideously to itself, sending wisps of cold air into the streets. It was happy, for this was no ordinary fight between friends, he knew. These were brothers, blood brothers, who had been turned against each other because of a horrible murder. Assassins, bullets, blood- all the things evil adores. The darkness ceased, and let the rest unfold.

Below, Spike and Vicious stood staring at each other.

Nearly one hundred people were crowded around, though behind street signs and brick walls. They all stared, to scared to move, to excited to leave.

Two men, one brandishing a gun, and a dead body lying in the middle of the street. No explanation needed. Spike realized this was no time for bickering between foes. He stared at Vicious, and with his eyes, motioned him to go through the crowd on his left, and get away. Vicious barely nodded his head, and they both silently walked into the crowd, the crowd themselves forming a path for the two mysterious men. 

Vicious's crane flew away, and he put his gun inside a holster on his waist, and they slowly resided into the night.

Vicious had a small car waiting around the corner; they got in, Vicious at the wheel, and drove off. Spike rested his head on his hand, which was balanced with his elbow on the windowsill of the door. Vicious just stared straight ahead, and then finally broke the silence.

"Listen," he began. "I...I'm sorry. I know it isn't worth bullshit to you, but it's really all I can say.

Spike sighed, and kept staring at the window. Rain was beginning to fall from the darkened yet cloudy skies.

"Man, there is nothing I can do. Yeah, sure I wish I could take back what I said. I was pre-occupied with my target; I said the first thing on the tip of my tongue."

Spike lifted his head, and looked at Vicious, with his eyes squinted in an annoyed way.

"Vicious," said Spike, "I don't care what the fuck you say. Because of your 'mess-up' I am going to get my ass handed to me sometime soon."

"Don't worry, they won't be after you," Vicious said.

"What do you mean by that?" asked Spike.

"What I mean is they have no time. They won't contact Quinn again until he contacts them. Do you know why, Spike?"

"Nope."

"It's because there is a war going on, a huge war. Right on Ganymede, at this very moment."

"War, what kind of war?" asked Spike.

"Well, it happened very suddenly. We were at warehouse seven, the ammo warehouse, and, out of the blackness of the night, came entire cases of bullets screaming towards us. They took out Mr. Kaustrik. I still remember him, lying in that puddle of blood. You couldn't see his real expression, since he'd been shot three times in the head, twice in the cheek, once in his left eye."

"He deserved it. It's always annoying when guys like him just order us around to kill tons of people, and he himself can't even aim a pistol correctly."

"Shut up!" he screamed. "He could shoot better than both of us combined! He was a great man, and a steady marksman, may he rest in peace."

Spike sighed once more.

"They got 'cha Vicious," mumbled Spike to himself.

Vicious could apparently understand him and replied. "They don't 'have' me. I chose to be there. I love the thrill of the kill. I'll be up there some day, mark my words."

Vicious stopped in front of a fancy restaurant named _Le Bistro Rouge_. 

"Here?" asked Spike.

"It's the bisque, I s'pose. Can make a man smile, even when he's about to die."

****

10:30 P.M.

Spike and Vicious stared at their menus, pondering the specials. Eyes sitting in the corners of their heads peered at the mysterious newcomers to the restaurant. They eventually went back to their finger sandwiches and wine, and left the two alone.

A somewhat fat woman came over, dressed in a black dress, with a pen resting on her ear, and a pad of paper and a pencil in her hands. 

"Now what can I get for you two fine gentlemen?"

The two didn't smile. They both folded their menus, and put them on a pile at the end of their booth. 

"Red Pepper Bisque, please," said Vicious.

"Excellent choice, Sir," said the waitress, scribbling some kitchen lingo on her pad. "And for you?" she asked, staring at Spike.

"A burger, just ketchup 'll be fine for me," said Spike.

The waitress sighed annoyingly. "Yes'ir." She strolled off, and Vicious and Spike just looked down, not expecting the other one to speak.

"So...what to do...what to do..." Spike went on.

"What?" asked Vicious.

"If no one's after me anymore, what should I do now?"

"What are you talking about? After a month, the syndicate will have killed the family, and they will check your case out."

"But you said-"

"I said right now they won't come after you, but later they will."

"Damn," said Spike, "I am not in a good position."

The waitress delivered their dishes.

"But for now, I'll just eat my burger."

Spike inspected his burger. Medium thickness of buns, full thickness of meat, and a nice layer of ketchup, grilled to perfection. He smiled to himself; seeing the hamburger as his last second of joy. He placed the burger to his lips, and took a bite of it. 

Suddenly, some man burst through the front window, wielding an AK-47. He wore dark panty hose over his face to conceal his identity, though they would easily recognize him later at the city morgue- he had just interrupted Spike's burger, and Spike was mad.

"What...the...fuck," said Vicious.

"Seems bad luck is following my trail. Damn. Give me your gun."

"What?"

"Give me your goddamn gun."

Vicious handed Spike his gun. Spike concealed it in his jacket, and acted natural.

"Everybody, into the kitchen! Hurry up or I'll fill you wit' lead!" said the man. He jumped up onto a couple's table, and shot some bullets into the ceiling, sending plaster cascading onto other guests. "Now!"

****

11:02 P.M.

All the guests of _Le Bistro Rouge_ scurried into the kitchen, and then they were locked into the giant walk-in freezer. Spike stared into the window, brushing away hanging stalagmites that had frozen onto it. The man had taken off his "mask" and was just sitting on the counter, smoking his cigarette. Spike turned around and listened in on conversations of the people.

"He's going to kill me Marty! He wants my jewelry!" said one woman.

"We're all gonna die!" screamed a man in the corner, holding himself and shivering like he had just taken an extremely cold shower. 

Vicious just leaned against the wall, and watched everyone else. He stared at Spike and rolled his eyes. This wasn't scary, this was just a waste of his time.

"OK, OK people, calm down!" shouted Spike. "You may be thinking that he's going to gun your fat, pudgy, spoiled rotten little heads off the moment we annoy him, and, well, you're right!"

Everyone started screaming. The robber put his panty hose mask back on, and peered through the window.

"Ya'll shut da hell up in 'dere!" he screamed through the window. 

Spike was out of view from the man because he was leaning on the door in which the window was. Spike made his thumb and forefinger into the shape of a gun, and put it to his head. He pulled his thumb down, and jerked his head, motioning that he had been shot in the head. Everyone screamed. 

The man finally opened the door, and came inside. 

"Shut the fuck up you idiots! You wan' me to fill you's full a lead?" he screamed. He hadn't noticed Spike.

Spike casually walked up to the man, and smacked him on the back of his head.

"Don't waste our time, padre, and we won't waste you," Spike said.

"You son of-" he was cut off when Spike put the S&W to his neck. Spike pushed the barrel hard against his neck. 

"Feeling lucky, punk?" he taunted.

Vicious quickly ran over and kicked the AK-47 out of the robber's hands. The robber didn't move.

"Will you do the honors Vicious?" asked Spike. Vicious nodded, and punched the man in the back of the base of his neck. The robber fell to the ground, unconscious.

"One of you call the cops, we haven't got time for this," said Spike, as he twirled the gun on his finger, and quickly slipped it into his jacket.

Spike and Vicious walked calmly to the front of the restaurant, before they were interrupted by gun shots at their feet. They dove under a table, and knocked it over for cover. A different man, a simple manager who had been in the back apparently, was holding the AK-47.

"You messed up our plans, dammit! Now you gotta die! Eat lead!"

He sprayed bullets into the isle next to the booth in which the two were hiding; a few scraped the table. They sat under the table, waiting for the impatient cohort of the robber to come to them. Before they could, they heard a scream, a woman's scream. Vicious and Spike peered over their table.

The man was holding the gun into the stomach of a waitress, yet another person who had been in the back during the robbery. She had a red dress on, with a white apron tied around her waist. She was not a person to be working in a place like this. She was slender; with perfect curves; perfect form. Her face could brighten a frown, she was beautiful. Every inch of her being was a vacuum for beauty, even her long, shoulder length, blonde hair.

Vicious and Spike were in love. If the present time wasn't so wrong, they would have stared and mumbled like fools. It was love at first sight. But love at first sight was usually nothing more than a spontaneous and momentary crush, though this, as the two knew, was much, much more. They had to save her; her life depended on it.

Spike was about to jump to another, closer to the robber, cover, when the previous robber awakened from his unconscious state, and pulled a pistol from the crotch of his pants. He cocked it, and readied it at Vicious and Spike's location. 

Spike jumped to another booth, just to the left of theirs. Shots fired, none hit their target. Spike shot some bullets at the wall above them, which diverted their attention, and he quickly jumped over the booth, and ran to the wall just next to the small corridor they were standing in.

Vicious looked at Spike. Spike looked at Vicious. Their eyes winced; they had made a plan. Vicious jumped up and fired shots around them, but he was certain not to hit them. Spike rounded the corner and sent two rounds into the second robber's head. He grabbed the robber's body and used it as a shield as the first robber pumped bullets into the second robber, trying to hit Spike. Spike threw the body at the robber, and then shot the robber twice, once in the leg and another in the chest.

He grabbed the women and led her outside; Vicious followed, providing cover from the semi-recovering man.

Spike led her to the car, and Vicious jumped into the back. They sped away into the consuming darkness called night.

****

11:27 P.M.

The hum of the old engine on Vicious's car drowned out any sound for the moment. It didn't matter though, no one had anything to say, or, rather, no one wanted to talk about anything. 

Vicious sat in the back seat, holding his gun, and constantly peering out the back window. 

Spike sat at the front wheel, seemingly shrugging off the recent gunplay, and yawned. 

The woman, though a bit dazed, didn't seem to be mystified by the whole experience. She just lay her head back on the seat, and closed her eyes.

"Well, I guess we better get a hotel room. I'm tired, and I never got to finish dinner," said Spike out of nowhere.

Vicious jumped when Spike spoke but tried to hide the fact, to show his ease of mind to the woman in the front seat.

"Aren't you going to ask me my name?" asked the woman, still lying her head back with eyes closed.

"What?" yawned Spike.

"That's what always happens, right? The guy, or in this case guys, save the damsel in distress, and then take her to their home and sleep with her," she mumbled.

"Not really. I'm too tired to have sex with you," Spike said. "Maybe in the morning."

The woman hit Spike in the stomach; he swerved the car, then smiled and said "Uh...Sorry?" and yawned again.

"Julia," she said. "I'm Julia."

"That's a pretty name," said Vicious, now also resting his head, but still clenching his gun.

"Oh, thanks," said Julia.

Vicious smiled to himself.

"So about that hotel," Vicious went on, "how's about Motel 3? It's a nice place, no rats or roaches last time I slept there."

"Whatever," Spike said, who yawned again.

They arrived at the motel, and were surprised that this one, which was recently renovated, had it's own lounge bar. Vicious headed to get a small shot of whiskey, and Julia went and stood by a magazine rack, holding her folded apron over her arms.

Spike went to the counter to get a room.

"How may I help you, Sir?" asked the deskman.

Spike yawned again. He wasn't in the best of moods.

"Can I ask you something?" he asked.

"Yes sir, of course," said the deskman.

"This is a hotel, is it not?"

"Correct sir."

"And when you go to a hotel, you usually stay in a room, and sleep there, correct?"

"Yes, indeed, sir."

"Well then, why aren't you getting me my goddamn room!" he screamed.

The deskman fumbled his pen he was holding, and quickly typed in some information into his computer.

"R-Room for one, sir?" he asked.

"Sure."

He typed some more.

"Tha-that's 75 woolongs p-per night sir!" he squeaked.

"Uhh...how about I give you an I.O.U.?" asked Spike.

"Sir, we don't accept I.O.U.'s. You either have the money, or ya don't," said the deskman, slightly happy that the rude man before him wouldn't have to annoy him during the night.

Julia came over and slapped a money card on the desk.

"That'll take care of it," she said, and winked at the deskman.

"Thanks," said Spike, without turning around. Spike took the room key-card, and walked over to Vicious, now sitting on a barstool, and downing shots of gen.

"Vicious, lets go to the room," said Spike.

"That's your name, Vicious?" Julia asked, not so much amused as perplexed.

"Yeah, you got a problem with that?" asked Vicious, now obviously getting drunk from his drinking.

"No, not at all. Then what's your name?" she asked Spike.

"Spike, Spike Spiegel."

"I see."

"You coming Vicious?" asked Spike.

"I'll see ya later," said Vicious, and he walked off to a pool table.

"He doesn't even know the room number," said Julia.

"Don't worry," assured Spike, "it doesn't matter."

****

11:37 P.M.

Spike and Julia sat on the elevator for ten minutes, right next to some smelly man, with an outgrown beard, and an outgrown head of hair. 

__

"Room two, floor three," Spike though to himself. _"This elevator is as slow as crap."_

The door's eventually opened, and Julia and Spike ran out before they vomited from the unbearable stench. They walked along the barely lit hallway, and found their room.

As soon as they got in, Spike plunked himself on the bed, and turned on the TV. Julia inspected the place. A tacky red carpet covered the floors, and two big, blue beds were up against the wall of the room. They were facing an old TV, the one Spike was watching. The ceiling had many strange holes from who-knows-what, and the fan hanging onto the ceiling seemed to not be working, as some wires dangled out of the top of it and made some sparks that shot against the wall when the fan's switch was flipped on. A small patio with old, rusty, generic patio furniture was outside a sliding glass door. To the left of the room's entrance was a very small bathroom with only a toilet, a sink, and a shower. 

"They didn't bug the room for god sakes; no one is even after us," said Spike.

"I know," said Julia, "just checking this hole-in-the-wall out."

She sat down next to Spike, and dropped the apron next to her. Spike looked at her and realized she had no other clothes.

"Oh, sorry," he began, "I forgot about getting you some clothes."

"That's OK, I can get some tomorrow."

"Oh, okeydokey then," muttered Spike as he tossed a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. He got up and went onto the porch and check out the view. Turned out he could see all the way down the road to the nearest fast-food restaurant.

"Thanks," said Julia.

"For what?" asked Spike; inspecting some people pumping gas into their cars.

"Saving my life," she said.

"Oh that? No problem."

"No problem? How many people have you killed?"

Spike didn't speak.

"Too many," he said, and then sighed.

"What?" said Julia; starting to back towards the door.

Spike noticed this and smirked.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Julia. But I will admit my bullets have pierced more than walls. Let me ask you, ever heard of the Red Dragon Syndicate?"

Julia didn't gasp; she actually calmed down and sat back down on the bed.

"Yes, yes I have. I faced one down once."

Spike looked up towards her, astonished.

"Yeah, nothing big. I was at a gas station convenience store, and a syndicate member pulled up outside. He jumped behind his car, and pulled out an Uzi. An ISSP guy drove up and hit the car, knocking the syndicate member down. The officer got out, but his leg was hit full of bullets as soon as the guy got up. The he fell to the ground, and accidentally threw his pistol through the window, just a few feet away from me. The member went over to the officer, and put the Uzi to his head. I picked up the gun and shot at him, barely missing him. He jumped back and slipped; fell straight to the ground. I ran out of the store and shot him in the legs; kicked away his Uzi, then helped the officer to his feet. He called dispatch while I was forced to hold the gun to the guy's head."

"Damn," said Spike, "nice one."

Julia smiled. 

Suddenly, Vicious burst through the door, holding a gun. He swayed back and forth, and his hand holding the gun seemed to tremble. Sweat slowly dripped down his face. He licked his lips, blinked his eyes, and steadied his hand.

"Spa-Spike!" he shouted drunkenly.

"Vicious, you're drunk. Put the gun down," said Julia, trying to calm the situation.

"It's OK, Julia," assured Spike.

"Is-is not OK Spike!" yelled Vicious.

Spike calmly walked over to Julia and held her shoulders.

"It's gonna be OK, and get down."

Julia ducked by instinct, and Spike did a roundhouse and kicked the pistol out of Vicious's hand, sending a bullet flying into a picture of two passing sparrows hanging on the wall.

Vicious dove for the gun, but Spike kicked him in his chin. Vicious spun over to his side and clutched his chin, then jumped to his feet. Spike held the gun to Vicious's head when he stood up straight, and Vicious didn't even bother to look at him.

"Vicious, don't be an idiot. This is just stupid," said Spike.

Vicious lowered his head and stared at the ground. He closed his eyes. Spike lowered his gun, barely, just so he couldn't shoot Vicious. He unloaded the gun and tossed the clip and gun on the bed. Julia had retreated to the wall, holding to it as if it was protection from the two men in front of her. 

Spike put his hand on Vicious's shoulder, and said, "Why don't you get some sleep? Let's just forget about this." Vicious shook his head and looked up at Spike. He lifted his hand, as if to put it on Spike's shoulder, but instead, punched Spike in the face, knocking him against the wall. He grabbed the gun and clip and stumbled into the hallway. 

Spike followed him and ran around the corner to see Vicious trying to stick the ammunition clip into the gun. Spike ran into Vicious's waist, tackling him. He punched him in the face, and picked him up by the collar.

"Get the fuck outta here!" yelled Spike. 

Spike heard a click, and something pressed into his shoulder-it was the gun barrel. Vicious smiled as the bullet grazed Spike's shoulder, splitting his shirt, and cutting Spike. He stumbled into the wall, holding his shoulder. Vicious hit him on the shoulder with the handle of his gun, and Spike collapsed to the ground.

Spike got up, and Vicious forced him into the wall, and pointed the gun into Spike's heart. He was now no longer drunk. 

"What was I thinking? This whole escapade is just a waist of my time." His eyes quickly flashed over to Julia's face. She was just standing there, eyes forced to watch the situation. She was sad and scared, but had the ability to hide it. Vicious wanted to comfort her, but knew love was a weakness, a weakness the red dragon elders would never allow. He blinked, a tear formed in his eye. He squeezed his eyes shut to evaporate the tear, but it still fell down his cheek.

"Crying, are we? Weakness," Spike teased. Vicious shoved the barrel hard against Spike's stomach.

"Weakness?" he screamed. "I have no weakness! I shall never fall! The elders should never be alive; I deserve to rule the syndicate! I am the only one!" He stopped for a second, his eyes seemingly searching for something. He mumbled to himself. "Me, yes, yes, of course. Only me. Those old men shall die a quick death.... but.... but not now. No...." He looked up and put the gun to Spike's neck.

"You are the only one who can stop me,"said Vicious. He smiled dryly. "Therefore, you must go." His eyes flashed over Julia, stopping for but a mille-second, then returning to Spike. "But not here, not now. Angels deserve not a sight of morbidity, that they do not." His eyes once again searched."You will pay for what you have done, you will never see the gates of Heavan, all that's left for you is Hell. You will burn there, Spike, forever more." He kneed Spike in the stomach, and Spike doubled over in pain. Vicious looked to Julia. Her mouth gaped, her eyes wide open. Vicious stared with no emotion. He turned and ran out down the hallway, and into the darkness.  


****

No One to Trust, No Need to Live...


End file.
